Say what you want about Gomez, but like most Platonics, the man knew where to go for good food. Like the Cuban chicken place "that Desi Arnas Jr. owns" (bullshit, he just ate there once). The chicken was crispy, juicy and bursting with spicy flavor, the MPC (Maximum Plate Coverage) score - a perfect 100, and the price of a meal, a steal. Still, prolonged one-on-one time with Gomez made Harry edgy. You never knew what the dude would say next. Like:
"Harry, did anyone ever tell you that you have beautiful brown eyes?"
(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))
(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))
(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))
(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))
(((((You have beautiful brown eyes)))))
Harry clutched the seat of the booth for dear life. He was afraid that his legs would betray him and sprint out of the restaurant and run wee-wee-wee all the way home. Flee from Gomez, leave town.
The chorus to The Partridge Family song, Point me in the direction of Albuquerque, suddenly played in Harry's head:
Point me in the direction of Albuquerque
I want to go home, so help me get home
Point me in the direction of Albuquerque
I need to get h-o-o-o-ome, need to get h-o-o-o-ome
David Cassidy singing. The epitome of cool. SFX: A NEEDLE SCRATCHING A VINYL RECORD. David Cassidy? How gay is that? Take thought back, take thought.
I want my room. I want my bed. I want my basement. I want to hibernate there for the winter. Or maybe longer.
I wanna go home and sell belts.
I wanna stay and be a star.
I don't know what the fuck I want, just let it be far far away from Gomez. The guy is creeping me out.
It didn't take much to creep Harry out.
"...?"
"You have beautiful brown eyes." What next? "Shall we dance?"
Gomez knew it was a stupid thing to say, he just couldn't contain himself. He was a blurter; that was just him. Nothing to be done. Sigh. Nothing to be done.
It wasn't a come-on line. Not for Gomez, who at thirty-two years old, still wasn't sure what he was. Am I or ain't I? Is he or isn't he? He didn't have a clue. A hunch, okay. A feeling, yeah, but shit, Harry did have beautiful brown eyes.
Poor tactless Gomez. Thick thick, Gomez, Always pushing it, pushing it until something goes oops. Dumb questions, embarrassing questions, inappropriate questions, annoying questions. Questions, questions, questions. The trouble was that he had grown immune to eyes rolling, guffaws, sneers and about-turns. One stupid remark and you become a jerk. Life as Gomez, 'Good grief.'
"No, that's not what I meant, y'know," Gomez back-tracked.
Yeah right, yeah right.
"Just that you've got kind of a dangerous look, Harry."
Dangerous look?
I wanna go home. Take me home.
"Like maybe you should do acting instead of writing?"
Like maybe I should punch out your fucked up Gomez face.
Not that Harry would. Instead, he bragged, "I did some acting in college. Majored in theater actually," while hating himself simultaneously himself for saying that. The only thing more pathetic than hanging out with Gomez, was trying to impress him.
"Why'd you quit acting?" Gomez bit his lip. He really wanted to say, 'You'd make a great leading man,' but that really was too gay.
"Choked...Literally, on stage during a production of Waiting For Godot. Long story but I can't get on a stage anymore without gagging."
"Well, the camera's not a stage..."
"Look I can't act anymore, Gomez, I just can't. No desire." Which was anything but true. Harry hungered for the spotlight, any kind, any way, but he lost his nerve and that was it. Shalom.
"Okay, okay. Just asking. In case we go into more casting for Leftovers if it gets picked up. There's still a few parts that need to be cast." (Bullshit).
Restraint. Be nice, Harry. Remember, Gomez is a connection. Networking is about making connections. About browning your nose. Hate it though. Maybe mom is right? Become a radiologist. No need to befriend the likes of Gomez. Just look at some undeveloped pictures and laugh all the way to the bank. What was so hard about that?
"I like writing because you don't feel so exposed.," Harry said. "Like there's something so pathetic about acting, so, 'Look at me, look at me!' Like a neglected child."
"For sure, actors are pathetic exhibitionists screaming for attention. Now I've got Wenzday Wilson threatening calling me up every day with special requests. 'I need this, I need that.' Like fuck, the show isn't even close to a green light yet and he's got this never-ending list of demands. Fuck him...On another note, how's life with Wendy?"
First tell me you never really dated her, Gomez.
"Well, she just adopted another pussy," Harry said. "Shared a joint with her last night and she coughed up a fur ball."
Gomez cracked up. "Seriously?"
"Yeah."
No. Embellished. Bullshit, but true in spirit. Because stories go better with bullshit.
"Welcome to California, Harry. One big freak-a-thon. Get used to it...And how's your room?"
"Okay if I never leave it. Yesterday I walked into the kitchen and there was an inch-thick line of army ants running from the garden into a discarded pizza box on the kitchen counter..."
Gomez gagged. "Oh yeah, I forgot to mention the ant problem."
"Here's something else to gag about. I'm kind of having a thing with her. Don't tell anyone though."
Oh shit, Gomez thought, she probably exposed him already. They were only friends, platonic friends. He knew it was a mistake to introduce them. Every time he had introduced one of his friends to a girl he was once seeing, they ended up in bed, he got exposed and lost two friends in the process. The collateral damage from bullshit. " You didn't!"
"More like she did me. Bad mistake but nothing serious. Wendy's not my type. Her pussy smells like a pet shop, but man, can she fuck!"
Gomez blurted out a nervous laugh. Good time to change the subject. Did Wendy expose him? Gomez shuddered at the thought but plowed forward with the conversation. "So did Ricky Dash read your Feldman script?"
"You mean Dik-Dash, that's how he wants to be called...I think he's on it now. I'm actually supposed to call him back tomorrow."
"Follow up with him. It could be the big break you need, Harry. That's what L.A.'s about."
Point me in the direction of Albuquerque.
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